


the feeling has gone only you and i

by orphan_account



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: 2007-2008 NHL Season, Canon Age Difference, Developing Relationship, Domestic Fluff, Explicit Language, Falling In Love, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Off-screen Relationship Negotiations, Roommates, Sharing Clothes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-10
Updated: 2017-02-10
Packaged: 2018-09-23 07:34:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9646529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: “This historic pick,” Tallon says, “First time ever the Chicago Blackhawks have had the first pick. We proudly select, from the London Knights, in the Ontario Hockey League, Patrick Kane.” Sharpy grins as the crowd roars, camera shifting over to Patrick hugging his father tightly. His stats are displayed at the bottom of the screen and Sharpy laughs, because no way in hell is that kid five foot ten.or, how Sharpy gained himself a rookie roommate and fell in love with him.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tazer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tazer/gifts).



> i had so much fun writing this fic, and it's all thanks to [jonnytazers](http://www.jonnytazers.tumblr.com). thank you for all the support, the yelling, and the love. this one's for you.
> 
> quick notes:  
> \- i tried to stick to the canon season as close as possible, but i did make some deviations  
> \- the age difference between patrick and sharpy is 7 years, just like in real life. if that bothers you or if it throws you off, this might not be the fic for you  
> \- same goes if you don't like patrick kane: don't read it, go outside and get some fresh air and vitamin d instead  
> \- the light d/s in this fic is not negotiated on screen and is in no way an accurate or good depiction of real life d/s relationships
> 
> title comes from the song 'vienna' by ultravox which was the only song in my playlist while writing this fic
> 
> have fun reading♥

Prologue

 

Sharpy can feel his shirt clinging to his back as he makes his way inside his apartment. He lets his keys drop in the puck shaped bowl and closes the door behind him with his foot. 

“Jesus, fuck,” he mutters, using his free hand to push his sunglasses up into his hair, wiping away the sweat from his forehead. He walks over to the kitchen and drops the large brown paper bag containing his groceries onto the kitchen island. 

He got back from Thunder Bay yesterday afternoon, and ordered in some take-out for the night. Today, though, he’s been running errands and tomorrow he’s expected to be at the club’s medical center for a check up. He sprained his ankle at the start of the summer break jet skiing in the Bahamas with his friends, and he’d rather have the club doctors looking at it than his home physician back in Thunder Bay. He can feel the anticipation thrumming through his veins already though, last season’s mental bruises having faded away over the first weeks of summer. 

Despite the cool wind coming in from Lake Michigan, Chicago is holding onto the heat like a vice. Stripping off his sweaty t-shirt, he walks over towards the couch and grabs the remote. Turning the TV on, he changes the channel to the Sports Network.  The 2007 NHL Entry Draft is almost starting, the announcers ending their long winding predictions as the camera switches to the Nationwide Arena. He moves to throw his shirt in the laundry basket in the bathroom, and picks up a folded clean shirt from the top of the dryer. 

On TV, the Hawks are announced to have the first pick, and Sharpy smirks when he hears the booing rise up from the crowd. No love lost in Columbus. He has to admit, his shoulders tense a little as the announcers go over the uniqueness of the occasion. 

The camera zooms in on the Kane kid, another Patrick, and he’s staring up at the jumbotron. There’s been a lot of buzz about him lately, he apparently lit it up in the OHL. As Dale Tallon gets up on the stage, Sharpy pulls the shirt he’s still holding over his head, pulling the seam at the bottom straight. 

“This historic pick,” Tallon says, “First time ever the Chicago Blackhawks have had the first pick. We proudly select, from the London Knights, the Ontario Hockey League, Patrick Kane.” 

Sharpy grins as the crowd roars, camera shifting over to Patrick hugging his father tightly. His stats are displayed at the bottom of the screen and Sharpy laughs, because no way in hell is that kid five foot ten. 

His highlights start playing and Sharpy goes back to the kitchen again, putting his groceries in the fridge and scribbling down a note on what he still has to get. He hears the commentator saying: “He’s very skilled, he’s very smart, but he’s very, very small,” and he looks back at the TV, seeing Patrick standing still for the pictures. He’s not  _ that _ small, but damn, his unruly curls and playful grin make him look no day older than the eighteen years he is. 

Sharpy makes a cup of coffee for himself and goes back over to the couch, wondering if this kid will light up the game like he did back in the OHL. 

 

\-----  
  


“Alright, kid, the bathroom’s through here,” Sharpy raps his knuckles on the door, “My bedroom’s right next to it. As of right now I got two guest bedrooms so you can pick whichever one you like. The one with the lake view is a bit smaller than the other one.” 

Patrick looks around, weighed down by the gigantic duffel that he’s slung over his shoulder. “I don’t mind, I’ll take the one with the view,” he says, his mop of curls moving with his head as he takes in the apartment. “Nice place you got here.” 

“The perks of being an NHL player,” Sharpy grins. “You’ll find that out yourself soon enough once your diapers come off.” 

Patrick sends him a deadpan look, but the twinkles behind his eyes betray that he can appreciate a joke even when it’s made at his expense. “You’d be surprised how many people have been joking around about my height and my age. I think I’ve pretty much heard it all by now.” 

“That was before you met me, kid. Anyway, I’ll leave you to your stuff,” Sharpy says, gesturing towards Patrick’s duffel bag. 

“That’s it?” Patrick turns his bright blue eyes onto him. “No house rules, like, don’t eat my cereal, don’t bang anyone on my couch, don’t leave your dirty socks on the bathroom floor?” 

Sharpy levels him with a look. “Are you planning on doing any one of those three things you just said?” 

“No, of course not!” 

He grins, flashing his teeth at Patrick. “Then I think we should be good,” he turns around to grab a bottle of Gatorade. “Seriously though,” he calls out, just before Patrick disappears into his room, “No teenage banging on the couch or I’ll kill myself and then you.” 

Patrick’s laughing reply is cut short when he closes the door behind him, and Sharpy smiles into his drink. He thinks he’ll be fine, having a rookie live with him. Patrick seems like a cheeky little shit, but he’s got heart for the game. 

That night, he learns that Patrick also has a good head on his shoulders, like, he’s really smart about hockey. It’s late, the sun has gone down three hours ago. Sharpy’s closed the curtains and put the heating on higher. The October chill has snuck up on Chicago, after a warm late summer in September. He hopes to get the apartment warmed up before they turn in for bed. 

Right now, they’re watching a rerun of the Blackhawks against the Flames. Patrick wanted to watch a January one that they actually won, which narrowed down the possibilities significantly since they only won two games that month. 

Patrick has his feet tucked under his legs on the couch, swirling his empty soda glass, melting ice cubes tinkling against each other. 

Sharpy props his elbow up on the armrest, resting his head on his hand. “Fucking shit powerplay,” he mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Why’d you even wanna see this? Yeah, we won the game but barely.” 

“For the powerplay,” Patrick replies, not taking his eyes off of the screen. “There’s a reason your powerplay percentage was just shy of twelve percent last season.” 

Sharpy frowns, crossing his ankles, feet resting on the coffee table. “I think it was a little more than that.” 

“Nah-uh, eleven point eighty-one percent,” Patrick mumbles, eyelids drooping a little. 

“You look tired, man,” Sharpy says, grabbing the remote and turning the TV off. “You flew in from Buffalo today with your shit, you must be exhausted.” 

“I’m fine,” Patrick protests, but he straightens his legs and stands up, stretching his neck and making his joints pop. 

Sharpy stands up from the couch as well, turning off the lights with the remote. “Home opener in three days, feeling up to it?” 

“Hell yeah,” Patrick flashes him a grin as he makes his way to the bathroom. 

Sharpy’s had a good few days at training camp, but Patrick, man, the guy had been on fire. Sharpy’s seen many promising stars fall through at training camp, but not Patrick. The other rookie, Jonathan Toews, had been a good match with him and together they had raked in most of the points. He’d gone for lunch with Seabs and Duncs and they felt the same way, that small flicker of anticipation, because  _ what if. _ What if this was the start of the team turning the franchise around? They’d tampered themselves down a bit, of course, since the season hadn’t even started yet. But frankly, if you ask Sharpy, it couldn’t get any worse than last season; the only way to go was up. 

“You and Toe-ez were looking good,” Sharpy says, taking Patrick’s empty glass and putting it away on the counter. 

“He hates that you’re calling him that.” Patrick comes out the bathroom, toothbrush in his mouth. “His face gets all constipated, like he wants to call you off but doesn’t have the guts yet.” 

“That day will come soon enough.” 

Patrick grins. “Yeah, I think so, too.” He goes back into the bathroom, and Sharpy hears him turn the tap on again. Turning around, he fiddles around with some of his kitchen appliances, makes himself a cup of ginger tea. It settles his stomach and makes him fall asleep easily. 

Patrick walks into the kitchen, pulling a few drawers open and shut, scanning the content. “Ah, knew it,” Patrick singsongs, dimples out in full force as he holds up the box of Snickers triumphantly. 

“Knew what?” Sharpy asks, pulling the box from his hands and putting it away in a different cabinet. 

“You didn’t strike me as being really uptight about your diet.” 

Sharpy narrows his eyes at him. “Are you saying I’m fat?” 

“You’re clearly not,” Patrick says, throwing a glance at Sharpy’s stomach. “But there were some kids back in Juniors, man, and they were uptight as fuck. Glad to know I can at least steal one of your Snickers every once in awhile.” 

He moves over, way in Sharpy’s space. He stretches out his arm to try and reach the box of Snickers in the cabinet over their heads. 

Sharpy breathes in, a little deeper, catching a whiff of Patrick’s scent. “You  just brushed your teeth,” he says, catching Patrick’s wrist and encircling it with his fingers as he pulls it down. 

He doesn’t expect Patrick to fight him or anything, but the way Patrick’s shoulders immediately slump, losing all tension, is something else entirely. Patrick ducks his head, his curls shaking a little. 

Sharpy releases Patrick’s wrist as he looks up again, his broad smile already back on his face. Whatever moment that was a few seconds ago, it’s clearly gone because Patrick steps back, bare feet making patting noises on the floor. 

“I was thinking ‘bout going to buy some furniture for my room after practise tomorrow,” Patrick says, trailing his fingers along the back of the couch. “If that’s okay with you at least.” 

Sharpy’s eyes are occupied watching Patrick’s slim ankles, his tendons flexing as he walks. “Yeah, sure,” replies. “I can come with, if you want.” 

“Kinda need you to,” Patrick smiles, “You got the bigger car.” 

“Planning to buy out Pottery Barn, then?” 

Patrick pulls a face. 

Sharpy laughs. “Get some sleep, we’ll figure out whether you’re a Rivièra Maison or an IKEA kinda gal tomorrow.” 

Patrick rolls his eyes but he turns on his feet, and nods. “Sleep tight,” he says, before closing the door of his bedroom behind him. 

“Night,” Sharpy replies to the empty living room. 

 

\-----

 

 

“I’m not letting you a haul a pool table into our apartment.” 

“You said you’d wanted me to feel at home.” 

“Feel at home without a pool table. Buy a fucking buffalo.” 

“Where can I find a--” 

“We’re not getting a buffalo!” 

 

 

\-----

 

October is always a clusterfuck. 

Games are played, they win some, and they lose some. Conclusions are being made about the season--even though there’s seventy more games to come. Sharpy feels his bruises smart with everything he does, the start of the hockey season always blindsiding him on how hard it can be. They started off the season rocky, losing the home opener to Minnesota by one goal. Eventually the wins and the losses went even, and Sharpy’s left feeling unsettled. 

He’s currently sitting on the couch, feet stretched out alongside the chaise. Outside, the rain is coming down steadily, thunder rumbling in the clouds. He can hear Patrick puttering around in the kitchen, probably making himself an evening snack. There’s a scary movie on TV, but he’s not feeling the Halloween vibe, for some reason. A few of the guys were up for a Halloween party, but they couldn’t find the gap for one. Maybe next year. 

He hoists himself off of the couch, walking over to the kitchen. 

Patrick’s leaning on the kitchen island, playing with his phone in his hand, stuffing his face with the other. “What’s wrong?” he asks, after briefly letting his eyes stray away from his phone screen. There’s a smear of ranch dressing beneath his lower lip. 

Sharpy walks over to the counter, tears a tissue of the roll and pushes it in Patrick’s face. “What makes you think there’s something wrong?” 

Patrick sends him another look. “We won tonight, pretty spectacularly, yet you said no to a night out with the boys and you’ve been sulking on that couch for like thirty minutes.” 

“I was watching a movie.” 

“Oh, yeah? What’s it about?” 

Sharpy flexes his jaw. “A family that lives in a haunted house.” 

Patrick snorts. “It’s Halloween, that one’s too easy.” 

Sharpy slides onto one of the seats at the kitchen island, grabbing a magazine from the wicker basket his mom had plopped there when he’d bought the place.  He’s reading something about how the Audi I8 performs versus the BMW I8, when Patrick suddenly snatches his baseball cap from his head. 

It’s not the first time. 

Patrick has this thing when he demands attention, slapping Sharpy in the face with the screen of his phone, stealing his caps, tugging the laces of his shoes loose on purpose. Sharpy gets annoyed every time, but he doesn’t want it to stop. It’s a thought he leaves behind, every time, not considering it because of the implications. 

He glances up at Patrick. Patrick’s grinning at him, tongue poking against the back of his teeth. “Give it back,” Sharpy says, monotone voice. Instead, Patrick pulls it backwards over his curls. 

The first few times it happened, Sharpy had immediately put an end to whatever Patrick was doing, pushing his phone away, forcefully yanking his cap off of Patrick’s head, kicking against his shin with his loose shoe. But sometimes he’s too tired to immediately deliver his revenge in a reflex. Like tonight. 

“Peeks,” he says again, closing his magazine and throwing it back on the pile in the basket. Patrick just hums, taking his plate and bending down to put it in the dishwasher. He turns around and Sharpy makes sure to meet his eyes again, raising his eyebrows. The corner of Patrick’s mouth turns up, and he walks over towards the couch. Sharpy hears him drops himself on the couch and turns around. 

Patrick’s sitting in the spot where he sat earlier, fingers pulling on the fringes of the throw blanket. He could walk over and snatch his cap right off Patrick’s head, but for some reason he wants Patrick to  _ give _ it to him, voluntarily. 

He sits down next to Patrick, who’s pretending to ignore him, staring intently at the TV as if the movie’s got him hooked. Leaning over, he grabs the remote wedged between the couch cushion and Patrick’s thigh. He switches the channel to CNN, where the presenters are covering a story on the diminishing number of tuna fish in the oceans. From the corner of his eye he can see Patrick’s jaw flex, but he stubbornly keeps his mouth shut, not commenting on him changing the channel. 

It’s weird,  _ they’re _ being weird. Sharpy knows they are. If he’d see others acting like he and Patrick are doing right now, he’d think they’re on something. But somehow, like this, when it’s just the two of them in their apartment, with the walls and the glass and the rain blanketing them from the outside world… It isn’t weird. 

He changes the channel again, to an episode of a show they watch occasionally. Settling further into the couch, he slings an arm across the back of the couch. Patrick’s curls tickle against the inside of his wrist. He lets his hand drop down of Patrick’s shoulder. 

They watch the show for a few minutes, Patrick gradually leaning into him a little. He can hardly feel it when it happens, when that sliver of tension fades away from Patrick. Normally he sees it disappear on Patrick’s face, but sitting like this, he feels it draining out of Patrick through his shoulders. 

After waiting a handful of seconds, he asks: “Now, will you give me my cap back?” He doesn’t mean for his voice to come out as low as it does, but it works. 

Patrick doesn’t say anything, Sharpy can barely see his nod, and Patrick reaches up and takes the cap off. He hands it to Sharpy, who takes it by the brim and tugs it over his own hair again. 

_ Good boy _ , he thinks, wants to say. He settles for, “Good job, Peeks.” 

Patrick releases his breath.

 

 

\-----

 

One day before they’re supposed to depart on the Circus Trip, Sharpy’s having lunch with Seabs at Pequod’s. 

He swirls his straw around in his iced green tea, his chin propped up on his hand. They’ve just ordered their food, and Brent is talking about a band that will hold a concert in Chicago soon. 

“And apparently the frontman goes absolutely nuts every single time,” he’s saying, showing Sharpy a picture on his phone.

“When are they coming?” he asks, fingers tapping a rhythm on the closed menu. 

“Seventeenth of April, I already got tickets for me and Jonny.” 

Sharpy throws Brent a look. “He’s into that kinda music?” 

“No,” Brent grins, “He doesn’t know we're going yet.” 

Sharpy wants to reply when the waitress appears with their food, putting two steaming plates in front of them. “Thanks,” he says, giving her a smile. He turns back to Brent, who’s already digging in, knife dragging across his plate. “Are you terrorizing your rookie? Savard will never make you Alternate if you are.” 

Brent rolls his eyes, laughing around his food. “As if you’re not annoying the hell out of Kaner.” 

Sharpy shrugs, taking a bite of the meat, savoring the taste. “I’ll have you know that Peeks is perfectly happy,” he says, taking another sip of his drink. “I’m not cockblocking him like you are.” 

Brent lets out a long suffering sigh. “I wasn’t cockblocking, I was trying to help him out. He can’t talk to girls for shit, man.” 

“He’s fine.” 

“Dude, even Tazer sees more action than him.” 

Sharpy cracks up, shaking his head at the table. “I’m not discussing our rookies’ sex lives with you. That’s where I draw the line.” 

“You started it,” Brent says. 

Sharpy briefly checks his phone, and then takes a bite of the salad on the side, making a face. “Don’t try this,” he advises. 

“Wasn’t going to,” Brent says. “Anyway, speaking of rookies, you think Kaner’s up for the Circus Trip?” 

Sharpy thinks about it, twirling his fork around. “Probably yeah. The schedule’s gonna kill him, especially once we get back. But it’s hard on us all.” 

“Still,” Brent says, “First Circus Trip is always a big thing. I think I almost,  _ almost _ mind you, regretted joining the Hawks on my first trip.” 

“Outrage. I’m gonna call Kuc,” Sharpy slams his hand on the table. He cracks a grin. “Yeah, you’re right. We’re gonna need to keep an eye on them. Maybe Toe-ez will run back screaming to Winnipeg.” 

Brent finishes his plate, and Sharpy follows, scraping the side of his plate with his fork and taking the last bite. “Missing rookie player, imagine that headline,” Brent muses, smirking to himself. “I gotta bail in a few minutes, still need to pack.” 

“Yeah, me too,” Sharpy nods, downing the last of his drink and waving a hand to catch a waitress’ attention. 

“My turn,” Brent says, sliding his chair back and walking along with the waitress to pay. 

Sharpy feels his phone buzz in his pocket and takes it out. Patrick’s sent him a text.  _ Stop talking about your manpain with Seabs. I’m bored. _

Sharpy grins, trailing a few fingers across his permanent five o’clock shadow.  _ Don’t worry, I’m coming already _ , he replies. 

Patrick’s reply comes in immediately.  _ That’s what she said.  _

Sharpy grins.  _ How would you know? _

Seabs is coming back over to the table so he turns his screen off and puts his phone back in his pocket. “All set?” he asks, standing up from the table and pulling his coat on.

Seabs nods, waving a napkin back and forth. “Gave me her number, even.” 

Sharpy grins, tugging his scarf around his neck. “Gotta be fast then, we’re flying out at seven tomorrow.” 

Seabs shrugs. “Maybe after the trip.” 

They make their way out of the restaurant, the cold wind biting at their cheeks as they walk over to their cars. “Catch you tomorrow,” Sharpy says, giving Seabs a one armed hug. “Good luck getting Tazer out of bed.” 

Seabs snorts. “Good luck getting Kaner in bed.” 

Sharpy waggles his eyebrows at him. 

“Not like that, Jesus Christ, what’s wrong with you.”

 

\-----

 

They lose the first two games on the trip, and everyone’s a little on edge. Especially after the overtime loss against the Preds tonight, the tension can be felt in the dressing room. The flight to Detroit is immediately after the game, and Sharpy keeps a hand at the small of Patrick’s back as they shuffle up the stairs into the plane. Patrick seems dead on his feet, a frown etched in between his eyebrows. 

“C’mon,” Sharpy mutters, maneuvering Patrick into a seat by the window. He takes Patrick’s bag from him and wrestles it into the overhead compartment along with his own. Flopping down into the seat next to Patrick, he pulls down the table and drops his phone on it. “Two and a half hours, give or take, then you can crash,” he says. 

Patrick’s leaning his head against the side of the plane, and lets out a hum. He doesn’t reply. 

Sharpy leans his head back against his seat, closing his eyes and letting out a sigh. It’s difficult. He doesn’t know what Patrick wants and needs right now. Besides, his own head is flooding with replays of the game, reminding him of what he should’ve done different. 

Opening his eyes again, he glances over to Patrick, whose eyes are also open but he’s staring straight ahead. His hands are balled up in fists. Sharpy sees his knuckles turning white. 

The flight attendants give a brief explanation of the rules and procedures, and then continue to close off their section, doing a double check if everyone’s seatbelts are fastened. After they take off and they’ve been in the air for more than twenty minutes, the seatbelt sign turns off. A few guys move around, huddling together to talk or play some cards on the wobbly little tables. He glances over and sees Seabs deep in conversation with Duncs and Tazer. Jonny looks pissed off, just like Patrick, but he looks a lot less tensed. He’s talking, at least. 

Sharpy wants to talk to Patrick, even if he doesn’t know what exactly Patrick needs to hear from him tonight. “Hey,” he leans over into Patrick’s space, softly nudging his side. “C’mon, follow me.” 

Patrick looks confused but he nods minutely, and stands up after Sharpy. 

Sharpy walks towards the front of their section, pushing the curtain away and pulling Patrick with him. They’re standing in the small space between sections, curtains on either side of them. Patrick’s teeth are digging into his lower lip, his tongue swiping out every now and then to wet it again. 

“Pat,” Sharpy says, meeting his eyes. “You played good. It could’ve gone either way, y’know.” 

Patrick breathes out sharply through his nose. “I know. I just, if we’d just had a few minutes more…” 

Sharpy nods. Patrick can’t seem to stay still, fiddling with his fingers, chewing on the drawstrings of his hoodie. Reaching up a hand, Sharpy grabs him by the nape of his neck. He doesn’t want to hurt Patrick, doesn’t want to make him abruptly snap out of it. He’s just applying pressure, pressing down. Patrick’s eyelids flutter, a breath leaves his lips on an exhale. 

They stand there for a little while, not more than five inches between their bodies, Sharpy’s fingers rubbing across the skin of Patrick’s neck. He can feel some of Patrick’s shoulder muscles relax. Patrick’s eyes close when Sharpy’s fingers dig into a knot at his nape. 

“Just let it go, okay,” Sharpy mutters, pulling Patrick into his body with his free hand. It’s not really a hug, he’s just holding on tightly to Patrick, caging him in. “We’ll get Detroit on Saturday, you’ll see.” 

Patrick’s face is pressed against the skin of his neck, and he can feel him nod. Sharpy gives Patrick’s nape one last squeeze, and doesn’t think he imagines Patrick’s full body shiver. 

He steps back and gives Patrick a smile. “Now, Peeks, show me a dimple.” 

Patrick rolls his eyes and gives him a soft shove, ducking around the curtain and heading back to his seat. His shoulders aren’t hunched anymore and he even gives Burish the finger when he chirps him. 

Sharpy doesn’t really know what he did, and if he did it right, but Patrick jerks his head as if he’s saying: ‘Come sit down’ and he smiles. 

They land in Dallas a little over an hour later, and Patrick’s half asleep as Sharpy ushers him from the plane to the bus and from the bus to the hotel. 

The lights in the lobby are bright and Patrick blinks a few times, ducking his head. “God, just get me to bed,” he groans, letting out a long yawn. They retrieve their key cards from the reception desk and shuffle into the elevator. 

“We got practice tomorrow at ten,” Jonny announces, as if they all don’t know and dread it already. 

“Smother me with a pillow once we get to our room,” Patrick tells him. 

“Gladly,” Jonny nods, giving Patrick a smile. 

“No smothering,” Duncs says. 

The bell pings and they pile out of the elevator, Sharpy walking behind Patrick. As Jonny opens the door to their room, Patrick turns around to him and he ignores the urge to hold Patrick tightly again. “Get some solid sleep,” he says, ruffling his fingers through Patrick’s hair.  He expects Patrick to slap his hand away, but Patrick just ducks his chin a little and nods. 

Walking down the hall, he follows Burish into their shared room, dropping his bag onto the farther bed by the window. Bur is already pushing past him to get to the bathroom first, brushing his teeth and leaving the door open. “Kaner was fucking down tonight, huh?” he says. 

Sharpy nods. “Yeah, I talked to him a bit, he seemed better after.” 

Bur meets his eyes in the mirror and grins around the foam in his mouth. “Yeah he did, be glad your rookie listens to you. Seabs got it harder with Tazer.” 

Sharpy feels a muscle in his face twitch. “I wouldn’t know about Kaner listening to me, he’s a pain in the ass most of the time.” 

Bur laughs, spitting the toothpaste into the sink and rinsing his mouth. “True that. The kid is forcefully stubborn, like he gets a kick out of it to drag the blood out from under your fingernails.” 

They switch places after Bur’s gone to the toilet, and Sharpy locks the door behind him. He stares at himself in the mirror as he brushes his teeth. His hair’s growing longer again, past his ears. After he’s done brushing his teeth, he leans both of his palms on the edges of the sink. 

He wonders if Patrick’s already in bed, if he’s warm enough, if he’s back to worrying again. Scrubbing a hand across his face, Sharpy realizes he’s on the verge of going over to Patrick and Jonny’s room, just to hold Patrick again, like he did on the plane. The way Patrick had gone lax in his arms, his facial expressions softening when he’d pushed down on the nape of his neck. 

He imagines Patrick sinking down to his knees, right there, and his cock fills up in his boxer briefs. A groan escapes his throat when he palms himself through the fabric. He swipes his thumb over the head of his cock, feeling the damp spot forming. 

“Jesus,” he mutters, yanking his hand away and turning the tap on. He swipes his face with water, and grabs one of the hotel’s fluffy towels to dry his face off. 

Bur is already asleep, or is getting there, because he doesn’t react to Sharpy entering the room again and turning off the lights. 

The sheets are cold and soft when he slides underneath the covers. He wills himself to stop thinking about Patrick and keeps his hands firmly away from his dick. It takes a lot longer than usual for him to fall asleep. 

 

_____

 

His heart's still racing when they make it to the bar on Saturday night. The game had been insane. He’d scored a hat-trick in the final period, getting them out of the danger zone of the Red Wings equalizing. Everything worked out there, and he’s happily letting himself be dragged along by Jason, who has an arm slung around his neck. 

They crowd together in a booth, chairs being pulled up so most of the guys can sit. Sharpy has barely sat down until someone plants a shot of tequila in front of him. He downs it, feeling a shiver pull through him at the strong flavor. 

A few of the guys are making their orders at the bar, and Steeger is already dancing. Kaner is also at the bar, he’s talking to Tazer, probably bitching about how they can’t drink yet. 

Seabs is talking in his left ear about the game, and he listens half-heartedly, grinning at Patrick when he slides in next to him in the booth. Whatever sort of temporarily lapse in judgment his brain had two nights ago, Sharpy is determined to not be awkward. It’s not Patrick’s fault after all that his dick got hard. 

He bumps his shoulder against Patrick’s. “Told you we’d pull through,” he says. 

Patrick laughs, the loud one, where he pushes his tongue against the roof of his mouth and the skin around his eyes crinkles. “Yeah, yeah, don't get a big head now,” he concedes. 

Sharpy catches himself staring at the bow of Patrick’s upper lip and tears his eyes away. Steeger is beckoning him from across the dance floor, flailing his arms around him. “I’m gonna go over to Steeger before he accidentally hits someone,” he says, clapping Burish on his back when he slides out of the booth to let him through. 

“Alright,” Patrick says, smile dimming a little, and he averts his eyes. 

Steeger is dancing with two other people who also seem to enjoy not keeping to the rhythm of the music at all. The music is loud. He can feel the bass reverberating through his ribcage, soothing his speedy heartbeat. Bright lights flash around, and he doesn’t want to know what is making his shoes stick to the floor a little. 

“Hey, man,” he grins, once he gets to Steeger. 

“Sharpy, light of my life, light of the ice. You need to untie your pigtails and let your hair down tonight.” 

Sharpy chuckles, letting Steeger pull him closer. “Oh, I don’t know, man. Bur is gonna kill me.” 

Steeger tuts, shaking his head. “Let me handle Bur, he can come crash with me and Ladds. Redhead by the bar has been eyeing you since you came in, I bet she’s seen the game.” 

Sharpy follows the direction Steeger nods to, and yes, there’s a girl with red hair at the bar, wearing jeans and a dark sparkly top. He catches her eye and she smiles at him, pretty face and a sweet smile. 

“Alright,” he says, nudging Steeger off him. “You take care of Bur, I’m not gonna forcefully sexile him, especially not when he’s drunk.” 

“Don’t worry about it,” Steeger makes a crossing motion with his hand across his heart. “I’ve got Bur.” 

Sharpy nods and then walks over to the bar, smiling at the girl. “Great game tonight,” she says, playing with the coaster underneath her nearly empty drink. 

“Thanks,” Sharpy says, taking in her light brown eyes and the pink lipstick across her lips. “What’s your name?” 

“Alicia. I’d ask you yours but you know, not really necessary.” 

Sharpy laughs, nodding. “That’s true. So you’re a hockey fan then?” 

She shakes her head a little from side to side. “Wouldn’t call myself a fan, really. But it’s always on at my parents’ house. My folks are big Red Wings fans.” 

“Ah, what a waste.” He smiles. “What are you drinking?” 

“Virgin margarita,” she levels him with a look. “I think I’ll shift to the real thing now.” 

“Good plan,” Sharpy grins, raising his hand to catch the bartender’s attention. 

Less than forty-five minutes later, he’s kissing her against the door of his hotel room, not giving a damn who might walk past or come out of their room.

Alicia arches into his touches, and his fingers fumble to take the key card out of his back pocket. They stumble through the door, laughing when she nearly stumbles over her shoes. “Stupid things,” she laughs, kicking them off.

Without the shoes, she another three inches shorter and Sharpy enjoys crowding her against the wall. A burst of arousal goes down his stomach when he’s got her caged in, and she’s fumbling with the zipper on her jeans. He tugs his shirt over his head, cradling Alicia’s head as she presses a kiss against his collarbone.

They get naked and move over towards the bed. He grunts out a moan when she goes down on him, sucking the head of his cock in between her pink lips. She moves his hands into her hair, glancing up at him expectantly.

He starts thrusting into her mouth, slowly at first but as her moans get louder, his thrusts become faster. The game and the alcohol have done a number on him though, and he doesn’t want it to be over before he can get her off.

He slowly pulls back and flips them, pressing her wrists into the mattress with one hand. The other moves down her body, and he slides a finger in her. “Oh, fuck,” she gasps, and he latches his mouth to one of her nipples, sucking softly.

When he’s fingering her with three fingers, kissing her throat and her collarbones, she pulls back. “C’mon, get inside me,” she says.

He gets up to grabs a condom from his bag. She puts it on for him, but he grabs her wrists again and makes her curl her fingers around the headboard. Smiling, she wraps her legs around his waist, pulling him in.

He lets out a moan when he slips inside, setting up a fast rhythm as soon as she’s adjusted to his size. It’s great, it’s good sex and they’re enjoying themselves, but his mind isn’t in it.

Maybe it’s the booze, or his fatigue, but something is off. Alicia’s sucking a hickey in his neck, and it doesn’t make his head swim.

He thumbs at her clit, applying pressure and rubbing it in time with his thrusts. When she comes, her walls clench around him, and his thrusts falter. “C’mon,” she whispers against his lips, kissing him.

He thrusts inside a few more times, and clenches his hands in the sheets when he comes, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Fuck yeah,” she laughs, her chest heaving.

He smiles at her, kissing down her legs as he moves off the bed to throw the condom away. Moving back between her legs, he kisses her inner thighs and pushes his fingers in. Her back curves up prettily as he tongues her clit, applying pressure as he slips another finger back inside her. He curves them upwards, thrusting them in steadily as he keeps sucking and licking at her clit. She comes again, her hands tangled in his hair and his name on her lips.

They lie on the bed for a little while, catching their breaths.

He’s sore, he’s tired, but it’s all from the game. Somehow it feels like he’s missing something--like he’s just finished a puzzle and doesn’t realize that he forgot the outer edge.

They get up eventually to get dressed, and he holds her hand on the way down to the lobby. He kisses her when the taxi pulls up.

“Good luck on the rest of the trip,” she says, pulling the car door open.

“Thanks, sleep tight.” He waves when the cars taxi switches lanes onto the street, and hurries back inside to the warmth of the hotel.

Once inside the elevator, he rests his forehead against the mirror, fogging up the glass with his body heat. The sex was good and Alicia’s a nice girl, but it hasn’t taken away the restless tremor he feels inside his body all the time.

At first he thought he just needed to get laid, that’s why he was feeling like he’s missing something, and why his dick gets hard at the thought of Kaner on his knees. But after tonight he’s left even more confused than before, because the feeling is still there.

The image of Patrick willingly sinking to his knees when he applies pressure on his shoulder is still enticing, and he still wants. Wants… something.

The bell once again pings when the elevator stops at his floor, and as the doors slide open, he can hear another door down the hall  being thrown closed. He peers out into the hallways, but it’s deserted.

A rush of relief goes through him. He really doesn’t want to face any of his teammates right now. Doesn’t want them to ask about fucking Alicia, when his eyes betray he wants something else entirely.

He walks past Kaner and Tazer’s room, and lets his fingers slide past the metal-plated numbers on the door. His fingers itch, wanting to curl in a fist and knock on the door. He pulls his hand back and goes to his own room.

Bur is probably sleeping in Steeger’s room, so without a second thought he crashes on Bur’s bed. Thoughts are still plaguing his mind when he falls into a restless sleep.

 

 

\-----

 

They leave the Circus Trip behind them with mixed feelings. It could’ve gone much worse, but it also could’ve gone much, much better. Sharpy thinks it’ll be a recurring theme of this season. He hopes it won’t be, of course, but he also knows where the limits of the team lie at this moment. 

December starts as shitty as it can be, with them losing at home three times in a row. Patrick holes up in his room a lot, or hangs out with Seabs and Tazer at their place. He’s been having trouble sleeping, Sharpy knows, not getting in the right amount of hours to play a game in the evening. He still plays of course, and pretty damn well too. He’s raking in goals himself, and Patrick’s giving assist after assist.  Commentators have forgotten their doubts about Patrick’s height, and are loading him with praise. It makes Sharpy feel proud, because Patrick’s doing a great job. But still, he’s not sleeping enough and it affects his moods and his appetite. 

They’re lounging on the couch, watching a stupid talk show on TV when Sharpy stands up and nods to Patrick’s bedroom. “Gonna have a nap?” 

Patrick nods. “Yeah, in a bit. My sheets are still in the dryer, I can put them on around four.” 

Sharpy frowns. “Then you’d only get like forty minutes in. That’s not enough, Kaner.” 

“I know, okay,” Patrick says, standing up from the couch. “It doesn’t matter though, whatever I do, I can’t seem to get enough sleep. Maybe I should stop playing around with my phone before I go to bed or something. It’s fine, though, if you want me to try I can grab a blanket and sleep on the couch.” 

Sharpy rolls his eyes. “Sleeping on this couch won’t do anything for you except throw your back out. C’mon, you can get in my bed if you promise not to move.” 

Patrick stares at him for a silent second before he quips: “Says the guy who repeatedly falls out of beds on the road.” 

“I’ll kill Bur for telling you and Tazer that,” Sharpy says, grabbing Patrick by his neck and moving him towards his bedroom. Patrick goes easily enough, his curls tickling the back of Sharpy’s hand. 

They walk into Sharpy’s room, and he moves over to close the curtains. The Chicago sky is gray and bleak, always a bit depressing in the winter. 

“Can I wear one of your shirts? I threw the one I sleep in along with my sheets into the wash.” 

“Sure, just grab one. My older tees are on the first shelf from the bottom,” he says, taking off his shirt and jeans while Patrick rummages through his closet. He mostly sleeps in just his boxer briefs when he’s not on the road, and he’s not going to change into something else because of Patrick. It’s his bed after all. 

Pulling back the blankets, he gets in and moves onto his stomach, sliding his hands underneath the pillow. He closes his eyes, inhaling deeply and relaxing his muscles. When Patrick gets in, he briefly opens them again and sees Patrick wearing one of his old faded Catamounts shirts. 

Patrick starts twisting and turning as soon as he’s pulled the covers down over himself. He leaves him at it for a few minutes, figuring he’ll settle down soon enough. 

But no, he doesn’t. 

Sharpy inhales deeply when Patrick pulls a part of the covers away from his body, leaving his back open and cold. 

“No wonder you can’t fucking sleep,” he says, yanking on the corner of the covers. “You keep moving.” 

“I can’t help it that your mattress is hard as fuck,” Patrick mutters, turning over again. 

Sharpy turns his head away, settling his breathing as he usually does when he wants to fall asleep faster. He can’t reach the same kind of calmness in his head though, mostly because Patrick just keeps. fucking. moving. 

“I’ve had it with you,” he bites out, reaching out an arm and pressing it down on Patrick’s chest. 

Patrick lets out a choked noise, but his legs keep moving and he still tries to turn over again. 

“I’m serious,” Sharpy says, and in a surge of annoyance he moves across the middle of the mattress. 

He pins Patrick down into the mattress with his hands on Patrick’s biceps, their chests almost brushing together. “Cut it out,” he says, a force behind his voice he’s not used to. 

It’s different from the voice he uses on the ice, that’s mostly just shouting, but this… He thinks Patrick noticed it too because he’s blinking up at him, mouth going slack. His throat clicks when he swallows. “Stay still or you can go sleep on the couch and ruin your back, see if I care.” 

He cares. He cares way too much. Patrick licks his lips, his tongue running across his bottom lip. 

“Understood?” Sharpy asks, and  _ there,  _ there it is again. The roughness in his voice, the compulsive force behind it. 

Patrick nods, blinking twice. Sharpy takes a deep breath and moves back to his side of the bed, laying on his side, eyes on Patrick. He closes them eventually, afraid he might do something stupid if he keeps looking at him. Sleep comes difficult to him now, because he’s hyper aware of everything Patrick does. 

But the thing is, Patrick does nothing. He lies there, completely still. 

Sharpy blinks his eyes open, and yes, Patrick’s eyes are closed and none of his limbs are moving. One part of him wants to tell Patrick he can still  _ move _ , for God’s sake, as long as he doesn’t make a hell of a racket the entire time. 

But a different part of him, the part that makes him use a different voice filled with dominance, makes him keep his mouth shut. He lets that part overshadow his thoughts; allows it in. Bringing his fingers up to his face, he rubs the stubble across the bow of his lips. 

Patrick’s completely silent, his chest rising steadily with every breath he takes. He’s not asleep, his breathing is still too fast for that. 

Sharpy wants to see. He wants to see if Patrick will listen to him, if he really won’t move at all just because he told him he wasn’t allowed. 

Eventually, his eyes become heavy with sleep and he smiles, just before he falls asleep. 

Patrick hasn’t moved more than an inch.

 

\-----

 

“Hey,” Jason sits down in the chair next to him, taking out his special plane pillow. They’re almost departing to Ottawa. “Isn’t that yours?” He nods over to where Patrick is fighting with Steeger over a seat. 

Patrick’s wearing the Catamounts shirt, the sleeves reaching down to his knuckles. 

Sharpy clears his throat, shifting a little in his chair. “Yeah, it’s one of mine.” 

He doesn’t tell Jason about the other handful of shirts that Patrick has recently snatched from his closet. 

 

\-----

 

“Over there,” Patrick says, nodding his head in the direction of an empty parking space. 

The entire parking lot is full. People are milling around, lugging Christmas trees behind them, and carrying boxes of red and green ornaments. 

“C’mon, man, it was free!” Patrick groans, just as another car parks in the open space. “You’re driving like a grandma.”

“Well, excuse me for not wanting to run over some five-year-old,” Sharpy shoots back, briefly holding up a hand in apology to a passerby. 

“So fucking Canadian,” Patrick mutters, arching his neck to look around the parking lot. “There! There’s another spot.” 

“You couldn’t have bought a Christmas tree last week, no, you waited until three days before Christmas.” 

“That’s because you didn’t want to come,” Patrick frowns, letting out a sigh of relief once Sharpy parks the car in the open spot. 

“I didn’t want to come because it’s gonna go like this,” he says, getting out of the car and closing the door behind him. They head to the entrance of the store. “You’re gonna pick some awful, huge tree that won’t fit in the elevator, and then you’d decorate it with number eighty-eight ornaments that I know you bought from the Hawks store yesterday.” 

He raises his eyebrows at Patrick, who levels him with a look but eventually caves. “Okay, alright, I may have bought some eighty-eight baubles,” he mumbles, pulling a cart out of the row and pushing it in front of them. “In my defence though, I also bought some number tens.” 

“Be still my beating heart.” 

Sharpy grabs a box of pearl white baubles and a red fuzzy ribbon. Dropping them in the cart, he steers Patrick around the store with a hand on his shoulder. 

Patrick grabs a Santa Claus Christmas tree peak, and waggles it at Sharpy. “We gotta have Santa.” 

“I’m sure your parents wanted to spare you the pain, but Peeks, Santa isn’t real.” 

“Really funny,” Patrick sneers, dropping the box in the cart. Patrick still pushes into his touch, so Sharpy can’t help but grin. 

They move through the store at a glacial pace, the large number of people constantly blocking their way. Eventually, their cart is relatively full with ornaments, ribbons, and baubles in red and white colors. 

The trees are displayed outside, and Patrick holds onto the cart while Sharpy goes through the rows of trees. 

“No,” Patrick shakes his head at the tree Sharpy drags over. 

He groans. “That’s the seventh one you don’t like, Jesus Christ, what’s wrong with it?” 

“Its proportions are off, how can you not see that? What about that one?” He points to a tree in the row across. “That one’s nice.” 

He throws Patrick a look that promises murder and possible disembowelment in the future. “That’s the last one I’m grabbing for you, my hands are nearly bleeding.” 

“Don’t be such a baby and give me my tree,” Patrick says, no remorse in the teasing glint in his eyes. 

He drags the other tree back to the spot where he got it from, maneuvering through the rows to get to the tree that Patrick pointed at. He curls his hands around the stem and drags it to the front, to where Patrick’s standing. His breath leaves his lips in a puff of vapor, and he flexes his fingers. “Well?” he asks, holding the tree at a distance and looking it over. 

Patrick grins and nods. “Yeah, that one looks good. I’ll go get someone to help put it in a net.” 

When they get back to their apartment half an hour later, he makes Patrick lug the tree into the elevator, while he carries the bags. “Not so easy, is it?” he asks in the elevator, leaning sideways to see Patrick’s face around the branches of the tree. 

“Yeah, Sharpy, you have superhuman strength and patience,” Patrick says, completely deadpan. “Now, get out before I crush you with this thing.” 

Sharpy gets out of the elevator, walking down the hallway and opening the front door so Patrick can drag the tree inside. The warmth of the apartment soothes his cold and sensitive fingers, and he quickly takes off his scarf and coat. 

He walks over to Patrick, taking the tree from his hands so Patrick can pulls his coat off, too. “Do you have one of those clamp stands for the tree?” Patrick asks. 

He nods. “Yeah, behind the second door of the closet in the guest bedroom. It’s in a white box, you should find some Christmas lights in there, too.” 

Patrick disappears into the guest bedroom for a few minutes and Sharpy can hear him rummaging through the closet. 

Patrick reappears with a triumphant laugh. “I knew it, you hypocrite asshole,” he crows, holding up a different box with number ten ornaments. 

“I plead the fifth,” Sharpy says, letting go of the tree. 

Patrick hastily catches it with his free hand, sending a glare his way. 

“Instead of going through my super secret possessions, you could’ve just grabbed what you were looking for,” he says, going into the guest bedroom. He should really vacuum the carpet in here before his parents come by for Christmas dinner. Sliding the doors of the closet open, he takes out the right box and brings it into the living room, dropping it onto the coffee table. 

They put up the tree in the clamp stand, although Patrick bitches more than he helps. 

“Okay,” Sharpy says, letting out a deep breath. “That didn’t go completely awful.” 

“Fuck you, we’re awesome,” Patrick grins, standing back with his hands on his hips, admiring the tree. 

“I gotta go vacuum the entire living room and the hallway, we left needles across the entire floor,” Sharpy says. 

“I’ll get started on the tree,” Patrick says, reaching into the bags to take out a box. 

“At least try to make it look somewhat classy,” Sharpy calls over his shoulder, dragging the vacuum cleaner into the hallway. 

It takes him about fifteen minutes to clean the part from the elevator doors to the door of the apartment, and when he gets back, Patrick’s adorning the tree with the Santa Claus peak. “Not bad,” Sharpy says, putting the vacuum back into the closet and walking over towards the tree. “If you look through the huge number of eighty-eights, it’s actually pretty nice.” 

He moves a few of the number tens to the front, slapping Patrick’s hand away when he tries to put them back. 

Grabbing an Xbox controller, he walks over to the couch and lets himself drop down on it. He moves one of the pillows under his neck, keeping his head at a straight angle. 

“Neck still bothering you?” Patrick asks, leaving the tree behind and flopping down next to him. “I thought you went to the physios after morning skate today?” 

“I did,” Sharpy hums. “They said it’s nothing serious, just a twinge. Can’t sleep on my stomach for like a week, that’s it.” 

“Alright,” Patrick says, reaching out to grab the other controller. “Wanna play Call of Duty?” 

“Yeah, sure.” He settles comfortably into the couch as Patrick starts up the game. 

They play on the same team for the first thirty minutes, chirping each other about the number of kills the other has. Patrick can never stay still ever, and it’s the same when he plays video games. Whereas he mostly leans back, feet resting on the coffee table, Patrick’s always right at the edge of the couch, leg bouncing up and down. 

They switch the mode, and are on opposite teams now. It always ends in a screaming match, either way, but Sharpy doesn’t expect to crush Patrick completely during the first game. 

“Oh, fuck off,” Patrick yells at the screen as soon as the replay of the last kill comes, and their stats are displayed on the screen. 

“I can’t believe you died more times than the number of people you shot,” Sharpy laughs, nudging Patrick with his shoulder. 

“Shut the fuck up,” Patrick frowns, jaw set as he elbows Sharpy in his side. “Another game, man, I was zoning out.” 

“Whatever,” he laughs, starting up a new game and laughing at Patrick’s serious expression. “You’re gonna give Tazer a run for his money with that face.” 

“I hate you,” Patrick mutters, fingers tapping furiously on the buttons. “Jesus, fuck!” he yells, getting killed again. 

Sharpy can’t look anymore, he’s half leaning over the side of the couch, laughing loudly at Patrick’s face. 

Patrick leans over, pinching him in the side. “You’re such a fucking douchebag,” he says, a flush high on his cheek. 

He holds his hands up, still laughing in Patrick’s face. “You suck so much,” he retorts, pushing Patrick off him and trying to pin him to the back of the couch with one arm. 

Patrick wrestles out of his grip. “Your mom sucks.” 

“Really?” Sharpy grins, shaking his head. “So weak, Peeks, so fucking weak. Not as weak as your Call of Duty skills, though.” 

“Oh, fuck you,” Patrick bites, trying to push Sharpy of the couch. 

Sharpy shifts his weight back and Patrick lands in a heap on the floor instead. The bewildered expression on his face makes Sharpy laugh again, and he leans against the back of the couch, grinning up at the ceiling. 

Patrick seems to have given up the fight, because he crosses his arms and lets himself relax against the coach. 

Sharpy stretches out his legs again, putting his feet on the coffee table. “Another game to save your honor?” he asks innocently, laughter bubbling up at the furious look Patrick throws at him over his shoulder. 

“Dick,” Patrick mumbles, breathing in sharply. He doesn’t move from his spot on the floor, though. 

Sharpy feels for his controller which has slipped between the cushions of the couch. He stops the game, going back to the home screen. The soft background music of the game spills through the speakers, now that they’re both silent enough to hear it. He goes over the various weaponry settings of the game, not really wanting to play another game, just browsing through the possibilities. 

There’s still no movement from the floor. Instead, Patrick’s listing a little to the side, his side leaning against Sharpy’s thigh. An exhale leaves his lips when he sees Patrick’s curls brushing the fabric of his jeans. He watches Patrick draw his legs in a little, settling into a comfortable position. 

The controller buzzes and Sharpy drags his eyes back to the screen, scrolling through the various types of aiming lasers. His eyes are tracking the movements on the TV but he’s not really seeing. The pressure of Patrick’s body against his thigh makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. 

“Pat?” he asks, “You wanna watch some TV?” 

Patrick nods, his cheek dragging along the outside of Sharpy’s thigh. It’s the closest thing to an invitation to come sit on the couch again, but Patrick shows no intention of wanting to move any time soon. 

The thought, that Patrick  _ wants _ to sit there, wants to lean against his leg; it makes Sharpy feel as if he’s about to vibrate right out of his skin. For the longest time, he thought he was the one acting weird; telling Patrick to do stuff, moving him around where he wants him to go, getting turned on when Patrick lets him, obeys him, even. But maybe he’s not the only one feeling it, this tension between them. 

He remembers what Steeger said to him last month about Patrick.  _ The kid is forcefully stubborn, like he gets a kick out of it to drag the blood out from under your fingernails.  _

Maybe Steeger wasn’t so far off with his interpretation of Patrick’s stubborn, teasing, and challenging behavior sometimes. Maybe Patrick doesn’t get a kick out of being annoying and pushing up in your space, but instead, he gets a kick out of it when someone pushes  _ back _ . When someone puts him in his place. 

The thought is a little on the nose, what, with Patrick sitting at his feet at the moment, but he feels like he’s onto something. It explains why the strain leaves Patrick’s body and face whenever he tells him to, or presses down on his nape or shoulders. It explains why Patrick, who’s always  _ moving _ , suddenly stayed completely still when he ordered him to, when he used that pushing sense of power in his voice. That voice he never gets around anyone else, not even on the ice. 

It explains why Patrick’s currently sitting at his feet, the warmth of his face seeping through the fabric of Sharpy’s jeans. He looks down again, takes in Patrick’s body and his form. Patrick’s shoulders are rising and falling slowly, he’s breathing as if he’s asleep but Sharpy knows he isn’t. The curve of his spine is relaxed, his ankles crossed. 

He wants to see Patrick’s face, wants to thread his fingers through Patrick’s hair and gently pull his head back, exposing his throat. His fingers are itching, instead of doing what he wants, the clamps them tighter around the remote. He wonders if Patrick’s knees are hurting, wonders why he wouldn’t feel bad if they were. 

Truthfully, he doesn’t know how long they sit there, watching the TV but not really seeing what is happening on the screen. When the sun starts to dip lower, and he feels it shining in his eyes, he checks his phone. It’s nearly six. 

He’d promised Seabs to have dinner with him tonight, and Jonny would come over to watch hockey reruns with Patrick. But sitting here, right now, knowing he has to leave in thirty minutes, he can’t find any convincing reasons to go. He has to, though. 

He clears his throat. “Peeks?” 

Patrick lifts his head minutely. “Hm?” 

“It’s six. I gotta meet up with Seabs in half an hour. What time’s Jonny gonna be here?” 

It takes Patrick a while to reply. Sharpy looks at the skin of his neck, sees when Patrick swallows hard. “Jonny’s gonna be around at seven or something, he said he’d bring take out,” Patrick says, voice a little hoarse but not much different than usual. He slowly stands up from his spot on the floor, turning his ankle a little before heading into his bedroom. When he comes back out, he’s tugging a hoodie over his head, giving Sharpy a soft smile. 

Sharpy wishes it were one of those days when Patrick wears shorts inside, so he could see if the knobbles of his knees were red. At that thought, he stands up, putting the TV on mute as he moves into the kitchen. 

Patrick follows him, goes to sit at the kitchen island. His whole demeanor, it’s languid and soft. It makes Sharpy’s head swim. 

“You better ask what Toe-ez is bringing with him, or you’re stuck with some vegetarian tofu dish. We didn’t do much shopping so you won’t even have much of an alternative.” 

“Yeah, I’ll text him later,” Patrick says, nodding. 

Sharpy walks over to the hallway, pulling on his shoes and putting his coat on. He wants to leave, get out the apartment before he suffocates on the need to pull Patrick closer and kiss bruises in the skin of his neck. But he can’t do it, can’t just walk out after what Patrick did. Whatever it meant to Patrick, it’s clear that is was a vulnerable moment for him. 

He walks back into the kitchen, ignoring the way Patrick looks up at him and pulls him into a hug. It’s not a long hug, and he doesn’t apply nearly as much pressure as he wants to, but it’ll have to do. 

Patrick gives him another one of those smiles, and this time he hightails it out of there. As he moves to press the button on the elevator, he notices that his fingers can't quite keep still. 

 

_____

 

It’s almost past midnight when he opens the door to the apartment. Brent had taken him for a few games of darts and pool after dinner, and time had passed quickly. 

The lights in the hallway and the kitchen are off. He can’t hear any sounds coming from the living room, which means Tazer’s already left and Patrick is most likely sleeping already. 

Toeing off his shoes quietly, he makes his way towards his bathroom, stripping down slowly while he brushes his teeth. His bed is cool when he slides between the covers, and he wills himself to lie on his back, not wanting to tweak his neck even more. 

When he closes his eyes, that tension is there again, stirring underneath his skin. He’s gotten used to the feeling during the day, but tonight, it’s worse. After today’s afternoon, his body’s been on edge for the rest of the day. 

He hadn't realized how much Patrick kneeling at his feet affected him, but when he palms his dick, the feeling of arousal goes straight down his spine. Breathing in and out a few times, he keeps his hand on his crotch, picturing the sight again. The curve of Patrick’s nape to his shoulder as he’d leaned against him, the soft smiles he’d sent him afterwards. 

He bites his lower lip at the images displayed on the insides of his eyelids. But then he thinks about how he felt, in that moment. The rush of control he felt. It’s not a coincidence that many hockey players hold on tightly to superstitions. It their way of feeling in control. But it doesn’t measure up to the feeling he got when Patrick sat on the floor, at his feet. Patrick trusts him enough to do it. He trusts him enough to let him push on his neck, to let Sharpy tell him what to do. 

Licking his lips, he palms his half hard cock again, hips arching into the touch. He traces the outline of his length through the fabric of his boxers, thumbing at the head. It sends a shiver down his upper body, arousal pooling in his stomach. Heat travels through his cheeks and his chest. 

He tries to push his brain into that mindset again. The mindset that makes him assert dominance over Patrick. It’s still unfamiliar, the feeling, but it’s a rush that goes through him. His thoughts trace back over the memories of Patrick and him in the plane, after the loss to the Predators. He imagines applying more pressure to Patrick’s nape, letting him sink to his knees right there, with their teammates just a few foot away from them. 

Slipping the waistband of his boxers down his hips, he closes his fist around his cock, He sees Patrick on his knees, and wonders what it would be like to trace his thumb across the bow of Patrick’s full lower lip. Maybe Patrick would’ve bitten down on it, because just because he’s on his knees, doesn’t mean he’ll stop being defiant. The thought only gets him harder, and he lets out a grunt through his teeth as he jerks himself off faster. 

There is pre-come beading at the head of his cock and he smears it around, dragging the wetness down his length. His thoughts go back to that afternoon. What if Patrick had been naked? Would he be able to see his red knees, or the way his skin would be covered in goosebumps if he’d let his fingers trace down Patrick’s spine. 

“Fuck,” he mutters, thrusting upwards in the tight channel of his own fingers. 

He’s attracted to so many parts of Patrick, it’s dizzying how much he wants to hold him, talk to him, tell him to do things, fuck him into the mattress until tears slip out of the corners of his blue eyes. Patrick would love it, he’d make an effort not to let any noise slip out at first, still resistant, still challenging him. But it would only take a few thrusts right up against his prostate to make him go lax again, his shoulders sinking into the mattress. 

He can feel his cock harden even more, a steady dribble of pre-come dripping down his length. His breathing is speeding up, leaving his nose in loud exhales. The covers are warm and clingy around his body, his skin getting slightly slick with sweat. 

He wonders if Patrick got off on it, if he’d jerked off in the shower after Tazer left, biting down on his wrist, trying not to make too much noise in case he’d come home early. It makes him wish he had, if it meant he could’ve heard Patrick getting himself off on being still and obedient. Patrick would’ve been fast, jerking off with a rapid pace.

He remembers himself at that age, the desperation that came with being turned on, just wanting to reach an orgasm as soon as possible. It would be different though, if he’d had Patrick splayed out underneath him. The thought of getting Patrick right to the edge, and then backing off again, doing it multiple times. Right up until Patrick’s cheeks flame red, his lower lip slowly being bitten raw, and eventually all he can do is ask for release. And he’d give him his release, he’d make Patrick come hard, coating his stomach. 

He feels the muscles in his lower abdomen tense, knows he’s close to coming. Arching his back, he wonders if Patrick would want to make him come on his stomach. Maybe Patrick would trail his fingers through the mess and lick it up, his blue eyes staring up at him, lips plush and open around his own fingers. 

Sharpy feels his foot slipping on the mattress, his body going tense all over. He jerks his cock a few more times, letting out a ragged moan when his come splatters all over his hand and on his lower stomach. Closing his eyes on a heavy exhale, he lets himself sink down into the mattress. 

His chest is heaving as he breathes, and he wipes the back of his hand across his forehead. The relaxation moves over into a tiredness that goes bone deep. 

He barely manages to swipe his stomach off with a discarded shirt on his floor. Tugging his boxers back up his hips, he rolls over, doctor’s advice be damned. He’s flushed and warm all over, but the tremor underneath his skin has settled into something more soothing. 

Curling a fist around his sheets, he quickly falls into a deep sleep. 

**Author's Note:**

> kudos and comments are lovingly drooled upon! support your local trash bag
> 
> im on [tumblr](http://www.lilpeekaboo.tumblr.com)


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